The Complications of Being a Meatbag
by gerardolopoly
Summary: When the Doctor drops into yet another universe full of murderous robots and violent wars, he just wants to get back to his own reality. Unfortunately, he is quickly roped into keeping a deadly secret from a certain morally questionable ex-Sith Lord - who reminds him a little too much of everything he doesn't want to admit about himself. (KotOR AU(ish); grey/balanced male Revan)
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

All was silent in the frigid vault of space, stars hanging in burning stasis as supernovae flared and planets spun in lethargic tableaux. An energy both new and ancient flowed through the meandering interstellar currents of this place; one few could feel, but all were touched by. Its presence was invigorating, its omnipotence breathtaking... its magnitude terrifying. Yet there was a way to the universe which transcended such planes and forces - the slowly exhaled symphony of the stars and the spaces between them, shaping itself across the millennia, inaudible to all transient creatures. The inexorable turn of the universe was invisible to the minuscule, short-lived sentients enfolded in its black velvet embrace... save perhaps one.

This one particular sentient, however, was not really feeling the privilege. He supposed attempting repairs on the TARDIS's systems in the vicinity of what appeared to be a strange wormhole hadn't been the best idea he'd ever had... but then, neither had the whole situation with the giant warships which had led to the damage in the first place... everything _had_ been completely under control, but before he knew it everyone had started turning into bloodthirsty koalas (honestly, whose idea was that?) and it had all gone downhill from there.

"I'm sorry, old girl, but can you _get your act together_?"

The only response to his abrasive words was a vibrating, resentful hum from the TARDIS console. The Doctor sighed in wordless apology as the faint residual light from her low-powered systems illuminated his face; old and deeply creased but nowhere near broken, a vitality almost unbefitting of his great age apparent in his shadowed eyes. He ran a long-fingered hand through his mass of springy grey hair. It was times like these when he wished he still had Clara with him... or at least he would, could he remember her in the slightest. His eyes darkened - if that were even possible with his sheer mass of overhanging eyebrow - as the memory, or rather the absence, of his latest and perhaps most complete loss clawed away at his concentration (he would have said it clawed at his hearts, but the human attachment to portraying the muscles responsible for pumping blood around the circulatory system as an emotional symbol had always gone rather over his head).

Nevertheless, the elderly Time Lord had more immediate problems. He trailed his hand gently down the console before him, feeling the pulsing energy of eternity encapsulated within the ancient ship.

He hadn't been wrong - since the TARDIS had veritably thrown herself through an inconvenient tear in space and time, eternity had felt different. Not flawed, or damaged, or tainted: simply skewed, as though the timestream were irrevocably changed. Either that, or the Doctor had somehow found himself in the wrong universe. Either way, the TARDIS was in trouble.

"What did that nasty wormhole do to you?" he muttered. The repetitive sound of the cloister bell hammered at the interior of his skull, drilling instinctive dread into the forefront of his thoughts.

"Shut up!" he yelled at the disconcerting alarm, not really expecting such an ephemeral entity as a sound to obey him. Still, there was no harm in trying. The only response from the ship was a soft, almost imperceptible pulse of light from the TARDIS console... before a deep hum resonated through the control room and the lights cut out altogether.

A moment of terror-charged silence, then...

The repetitive echo of the cloister bell started up again, reverberating through the darkness.

"No, no, no-" The Doctor made an impressively rapid circuit of the console, the shuffling slap of his footsteps loud in the unnatural silence. After an instant of frantic motion, his arms dropped to his sides and he stood, immobile in the ringing emptiness.

The TARDIS was not dead; he knew that much. Yet she seemed somehow incapable of functioning as she had been designed to... as though something was disrupting her. He didn't know what this proverbial spanner in the works signified, or where it came from - but he could guess as to its nature.

The Doctor was as attuned to the invisible ebb and flow of the universe as a being of his kind could be. He felt the turn of worlds and the transient flare of stars. As the lives of those who surrounded him surged forwards at the toppling crest of linear time, his simply stood as a deadweight in the current, impervious to time's cruelties - and to its kindnesses. He knew the universe... and now, he did not know it at all, because there was something here.

It was akin to a ringing at the edge of his hearing, or a flicker of shadow in the corner of his eye. It was imperceptible, yet to ignore its presence was impossible. It was an energy, infinite and all-pervading, spreading with effortless alacrity through past and future alike, moulding itself into the very basis for life, shaping the universe into flawless equilibrium. It was disconcerting, and more mystical than the Doctor could ever bring himself to believe, but its most disturbing characteristic was that, like Clara's memory, it was discernible only through its absence. He was not attuned to it in the slightest, and its existence only served to affirm what he knew with building certainty.

This universe was not his.

An unmistakeable stillness seeped upwards into the soles of his feet, and he came to understand that, somewhere in the last few moments of frenetic activity, the TARDIS had landed. When or where exactly she had landed, he had no way of telling... well... save one.

With a muffled grumble, the old Time Lord strode across the shadowed floor, flung open the TARDIS doors with a resounding slam and shouted:

"What did you do to my ship?!"

The words reverberated outwards, ricocheting within what the Doctor saw to be a contorted knot of trees and undergrowth. The TARDIS appeared to have landed in some kind of jungle, coming to rest in what just about passed for a small and rather unimpressive clearing. The atmosphere of the tangled forest seemed breathable, thankfully; the air tasted of dirt and sickly-sweet decay, a rotting humidity which clung immediately to the skin. Through the few spaces not occupied by snaking alien undergrowth, he could see the land ahead drop suddenly into a crumbling precipice, leaving only air steaming gently in its wake. And, hanging in that very air, was the strange energy which had disrupted the TARDIS, somehow even more potent than before.

The Doctor was about to perform a sharp 180 degree turn, because inhospitable jungle worlds _really_ didn't agree with him… and attempting impossible repairs on the TARDIS for a few days or centuries suddenly didn't seem like such a terrible idea... when he felt the unmistakeable, cold pressure of a gun barrel dig against his spine.

 _Oh, wonderful. A trigger-happy imbecile. Why is it that whatever universe I get thrown into, there are always trigger-happy imbeciles?_

The elderly Time Lord was about to turn and berate his attacker for their poor lifestyle choices, when a voice issued from behind him.

"Request: Desist your screeching, meatbag."

For a heartsbeat, the words morphed themselves into the baritone rasp of a Dalek - but the illusion dispelled itself as quickly as it came. This voice, while robotic, was far too emotive. And… meatbag? The Doctor had many names, and would have many more: The Oncoming Storm, the Beast, the Valeyard… but The Meatbag was certainly a new one.

"I have desisted." He spun on one heel, gesturing aggressively towards his face. "Look at me - I'm desisting!"

"Mocking appeasement: Very well, grey one."

 _Grey one? There's another one for the list_.

The source of the voice, he now saw, appeared to be some kind of droid - tall, humanoid and a deep rust-red in colour, clutching a large rifle of unfamiliar design, its orange photoreceptors glowing with joyful menace. A nickname for the metal creature sprung into his mind… one he had already used to refer to a malfunctioning Dalek, no less. _Ah, well,_ he decided, _a little recycling has never gone amiss._

"You there. Rusty," he called - which was hardly necessary, but it gave him a very satisfying feeling of control over the situation - "Why are you loitering? Stop loitering. I don't appreciate loiterers near my ship."

Rusty looked suitably affronted.

"Protestation: Why, wrinkled one, I am doing nothing of the sort! I am simply debating whether the act of blasting your sloshy, water-filled self into several hundred pieces would be detrimental to my mission."

"The Doctor was unsure whether to laugh, run or give an impassioned speech on the merits of pacifism. Whoever programmed this droid certainly seemed to have had a unique sense of humour.

"That would be a very bad idea," he stalled. "You see, if you were to shoot me, I would just keep on regenerating. I can assure you it would become really quite boring."

"Wistful reply: Oh, if only that were true. Rekillability is a feature I have always longed for someone to program into you meatbags… it is a personal fantasy of mine... but no, it is too good to be true. The galaxy always seems determined to deny me the simple pleasure of engaging in indiscriminate slaughter."

"How terrible for you," muttered the Doctor, the ground's appetising concoction of mud and decaying plant life sucking at the soles of his shoes as he backed gradually away; as fun as this little chat had been, he had much better things to do than engage in conversation with a homicidal droid. "Now, I'll just be getting back to my ship…"

"Correction: Negative, meatbag." There was something close to glee in the mechanical tone of the killing machine's voice as it continued. "Clarification: I am going to thoroughly enjoy blasting you to pieces."

Well, that wasn't good.

It was only the Time Lord's wealth of experience with being shot at over the centuries which led him to throw himself aside almost before the droid had finished speaking, an action which saved him from a quick fourteenth regeneration as Rusty unleashed a precise burst of red, glowing energy bolts. The shots whipped past the Doctor's head, blasting a smouldering crater into a nearby tree. Drawing on reflexes a being of his age shouldn't rightfully have, he grasped a ridged, vine-entangled branch and pulled himself behind the heavy barrier of a tree's trunk.

His respite was momentary at best - just as his back collided with the tree, concentrated gouts of flame raced to circle it and he had no choice but to leap from cover, coat singed and hearts battering against his ribs from the unexpected exertion. Nevertheless, his antics with the tree had bought him a quarter-second, and that was all he needed. Adjusting the familiar weight of his sonic screwdriver in his palm, he extended his arm towards Rusty, who was already raising the rifle for another shot… _One pulse, at the right frequency, right into its behaviour core…_ The Doctor's hands followed his mind's command in an instant, and something sparked silently within the droid's tall form, its photoreceptors dimming as its systems shut themselves down temporarily. A last stray bolt of energy thudded into a tree behind the Time Lord, tearing through his coat and several layers of skin at his shoulder on its way… a killing shot averted by Rusty's suddenly corrupted targeting systems as it completed its shutdown.

 _It always comes down to fighting, doesn't it? I mean, why bother with an intelligent solution when you can just bash things or shoot at them until you get your way?_

Ignoring the searing surface wound - but feeling more than small amount of resentment towards the damage to his outfit - the Doctor moved to examine the droid as it stood motionless amongst the trailing vines of the jungle.

"You are a very rude robot, you know that?" he told it, pocketing his sonic screwdriver.

Taking its lack of response as a sign that it was fully powered down, he circled its segmented form thoughtfully as the alien noises of the jungle sifted through his ears. The murderous thing was clearly well-made, and it had a forceful, distinct personality which would be rare in mass-produced machines (it reminded him slightly of that violence-obsessed potato, whose name the Doctor couldn't really be bothered to recall, crossed with a Dalek) so it followed logically that it was somebody's - or something's - personal creation. Who would make a droid of this kind, and for what purpose, was a question the Doctor wasn't sure he wanted to consider.

Still, he had next to no information regarding the universe he was in, or the infuriating force which had disrupted his TARDIS, and the memory banks of machines were infinitely more reliable than those of... well... meatbags, as Rusty had so eloquently put it.

Coming to a decision, he approached the machine, peeled back a rust-red panel, and went to work.

Despite its manner, the droid was beautiful. Someone had evidently taken great care in constructing it, and some of its programming was downright ingenious... not to say that the Doctor was impressed with the evil creature, of course; he could have done better, of course, and some of those circuits... no wonder the thing was crazed!

Nevertheless, while the technology was recognisable, it, like everything else in this odd universe, appeared somehow subtly different to anything he had previously encountered. Thus, his ability to tamper with it was limited.

After what could have been anywhere from an hour to half an Earth day, the Doctor finally surrendered to the inevitable. Stepping back with a faint squelch from the ground underfoot, he turned to face Rusty.

"Wakey, wakey..." he muttered.

Light pooled in the droid's triangular photoreceptors as it straightened up, its head moving rapidly from side to side as it orientated itself, then finally coming to rest facing the Doctor. With unbelievable speed, its arms snapped upwards, its metal fingers tightening around the trigger of its rifle...

And nothing happened.

"Exclamation: What fresh hell is this?!"

The Doctor simply smiled, trying to convince himself he wasn't drawing amusement from the droid's horrified manner.

"Diagnostic: It appears my delicate programming has been brutalised, and I am now incapable of harming you. Wonderful."

"Correct." The Time Lord gave his best devious grin. "I bypassed the need for an external stimulus which was blocking access to your memory core - only in effect whilst you are talking to me, of course. I also programmed you to consider me a secondary master, and to afford me privileges as such. Which would explain why you can't exterminate me."

The droid, however, didn't entirely seem to be listening; it was too busy soliloquising on its misfortune and describing in graphic detail each agonising torture it would inflict on the Doctor once its programming was returned to normal. The Doctor in question was less than intimidated by its threats, but he wasn't used to being ignored.

"Have you developed a fault?" he demanded, cutting Rusty's speech short. "I have questions for you to answer."

"Sarcasm: Answering questions? Why, I can hardly wait. After all, it is my primary function."

"All right, all right." The Doctor's patience was approximately as long as his attention span, and it really wasn't proving to be long enough. _Honestly, who programs a droid for sarcasm?_ Once again, he decided not to consider the question. Instead, he began his interrogation. "First of all, why did you attack me?"

The droid was visibly struggling, its loyalty to its master making it reluctant to divulge its secrets to a potentially hostile stranger. However, the Doctor's reprogramming gave it little choice. It would answer any question he posed, no matter how classified the information.

"Explanation: I was using this plateau as a vantage point to observe the meatbag settlement below. Your ill-advised yelling and stumbling about was compromising my position, and as such, you had to be terminated."

It sounded like an excuse, and probably was, given Rusty's penchant for unadulterated violence, but it was plausible enough.

"And why exactly were you observing this settlement?"

"Answer: My assassination protocols detail that I must observe and memorise the daily routine of a targeted meatbag before I select a point at which to terminate its pitiful existence."

Revulsion fortified itself at the back of the Doctor's throat.

"Assassination. So that's what you do. You exterminate anyone you are told to, without question? Of course you do; I can't expect rubbish robots like you to think for yourselves." He fixed the the robot in question with a dismissive glare, folding his arms. "You're not even a droid. You're just a big, walking weapon. Like a soldier, but... rustier."

"Objection: Why, grey one, you wound me! I am not rusty. In fact, I am in prime condition. You are correct: burning holes through selected meatbags in the service of my master is my primary function, but I do have a personal reason for my actions."

The Doctor raised an eyebrow.

"Of course you do. And that reason is your addiction to murder and carnage. which..."

"Interjection: Which was also undoubtedly programmed into me by my master; you are correct. Ah, what glorious irony."

Before he could question whether it fully qualified as irony, the Doctor lost interest in the current topic of conversation (as was his wont), and moved on with yet another question.

"Yes. Whatever. Boring. Now, tell me what's wrong with your universe."

There was a moment of silence as water dripped from leaves in the sickly air of the jungle.

"Query: What are you talking about, wrinkled one?"

The Time Lord gestured impatiently. "Your universe. There's some sort of force in it. Big, mystical, all-encompassing, extremely annoying... can't miss it. It's messing with my ship."

The droid's voice expressed what sounded like a tentative interest when it spoke next.

"Query: Are you referring to the Force?"

"A force, yes. I said it was a force. But _what_ force? You're not much use if you can't be more specific than that." The Doctor wished he'd had the good fortune to be stuck in a jungle with an _intelligent_ droid.

"Condescending explanation: They energy you are asking about is not just a force; it is _the Force_. That is the only name meatbags give to it."

The Time Lord scoffed. "That isn't very imaginative of them."

"Agreement: Indeed it is not."

"And what is 'the Force', exactly?"

"Definition: The Force: an energy field which forms the basis for all meatbag life in the galaxy and can be connected to or used by certain individuals, who often form into sects such as those infuriating pseudo-pacifist Jedi or the infinitely superior Sith."

The Doctor replied with the obvious deduction: "Just guessing wildly here, but does your master happen to be one of these Sith?"

"Confirmation: You are correct: my master is a Sith. He is also statistically likely to thoroughly eviscerate you once he discovers that you have corrupted my programming and forced me to reveal this information... a spectacle which I shall enjoy immensely."

 _Of course_. Judging by Rusty's charming personality, the Sith probably weren't particularly friendly people. The Doctor had reached the same conclusion about the Jedi, of course; both groups sounded like religious sects, and if there was anything more dangerous than a large group of collectively delusional fanatics, it was a large group of collectively delusional fanatics with the command of a mysterious and powerful energy field. And so, his train of thought inevitably led him to contemplate this field itself. This Force clearly matched the description of the energy he had felt - or rather not felt. He supposed he wasn't one of those individuals who could connect to it; he couldn't be, given that he hadn't been born into its universe. In the past, when he wore a younger face, he might have distrusted such an entity, tried to look for its source or prove its falsehood, but he was older now, and he knew reality better. He could feel the space the Force's absence left, and he knew that it was as ancient and vast as this universe. So, as counterintuitive as it felt, he accepted its presence. But that didn't mean he had to like it. In fact, there was very little about this universe that he liked. The ancient Time Lord had enough experience in the field of solving other people's problems to be able to tell subconsciously when there were problems to be solved, and this galaxy felt as though it were rife with them.

As he turned back to Rusty and asked the resentful droid his next probing question, he tried to convince himself that he was daunted and exhausted by the very prospect of resolving yet another crisis - to no avail. However he tried to suppress it, the familiar onrushing tide of a challenge and the thrilling unknown tore through his weary façade. This universe was not the star-splattered backyard he was used to; he could smell trouble on the mildly soggy jungle wind. This galaxy seemed conflicted. It felt wounded.

And who better to heal a wound than a Doctor?

 **A/N: If anyone has read this far, thank you! This is my first time writing on this site; I'm going to see how it goes. Constructive criticism is appreciated. I'm probably not going to upload chapters too regularly if only because each one is relatively long but I am hoping to get somewhere with this story and have some great character arcs along the way. I plan for this to span from just before Revan's capture until the end of KotOR 1 with a few timeskips and of course the Doctor thrown into the mix to make everything even more interesting. Revan in this story will be male and roughly adhere to the canon appearance but he'll be far more grey than LS or DS (as he should be!) There will be RevanxBastila but it won't be the focus of the story. I hope someone, somewhere enjoys reading this!**


	2. Chapter 2

( **A/N: Skip this if you don't want to read my rambling but I just wanted to mention that I'm following ideas about Revan from KotOR 2 here more than TOR canon because I don't particularly like TOR or the Revan novel. However, I will use the True Sith because I don't mind the idea in itself and Revan's 'canon' appearance because it fits with my first KOTOR character. I apologise if you don't like my portrayal of characters and events. Some of it might be canon-divergent (especially Revan's thoughts on Malak still being affected by the Sith Emperor's mind control) but those elements won't feature heavily. I'm always nervous when working with iconic characters like the Doctor in case they're ooc so please be kind although constructive criticism is welcome. Please correct me if I get any lore wrong (especially DW which I'm probably weaker in at the moment). All the best and thanks for reading!)**

 **Chapter 2**

A Sith fleet hung poised within the stagnant darkness of interstellar space, the maws of its great cruisers open in barely restrained hunger for the coming battle. In a matter of hours the ships would enter hyperspace, stars stretching into starlines as they raced towards what promised to be a major engagement with the Republic. For now, however, they simply lay in silent anticipation, their black carapaces shining with reflected starlight.

Darth Revan stood masked and motionless atop the grey metal of his flagship's bridge, letting the holoimage of yet another destroyed facility burn itself into the back of his eyes. He had plans to finalise, orders to give and preparations to perform before the upcoming battle - but for now he was occupied with a far more pressing concern.

"You did this... why, exactly?" His voice betrayed no emotion as he addressed the lifesize hologram of a tall, bald and heavily built man positioned across from him.

"Fear," Darth Malak stated simply. His gaze was accusatory - that much was clear even in his holographic, flickering obscurity. "It is our most effective weapon - you said as much yourself. Our enemies must fear our power. They need to know the consequences of resistance."

The robotic menace of his artificial voice made him sound less than Human, and Revan almost recoiled slightly before he caught himself. Now was not the time to indulge in thoughts of what Malak was becoming - especially since he could feel his apprentice's familiar presence pushing at his outer mental defenses.

"Bombarding strategic targets is not the same as senselessly destroying parts of the galaxy's infrastructure," he replied, allowing irritation and disapproval to barb his voice. "Spaceports, resource-rich areas, trade routes, major manufacturing plants like the one you just obliterated... we have already destroyed enough of them to hinder the Republic. You forget that they are vital to our success as well. They give the galaxy strength... and we need a strong galaxy. Have you forgotten our goal, Malak?"

This was the point in their conversations where the bald man would usually back down - or suffer the consequences - but this time he seemed determined to push his luck.

"I could ask the same of you, Master," Malak said, articulating every word precisely in poorly veiled anger. "Mercy has no place among the Sith."

 _Mercy? This isn't mercy; it's pragmatism. You should know that._

"Neither do wastefulness and idiocy." Revan kept his voice sharp and even. "Do you question my judgement?"

"Yes, I do," Malak growled. "You show mercy to those who do not deserve it; you are blind to the full potential of the Star Forge... you fear the true power of the dark side. You are weak."

Revan searched his mind for a reply, and found a hundred: explanations for his reserved attitude towards the Star Forge, the logic and calculation behind his so-called 'mercy' - but the words he truly wanted to say were waiting behind each justification. _Old friend... you're the weak one. All this senseless destruction, your refusal to see the wisdom in anything I do - you know I can only draw one conclusion from this..._

Before he could speak, the masked Sith Lord felt his apprentice's power surge outwards, fueled by anger, a breaking wave of malicious dark side energy rushing through the space between their flagships, arcing through air and metal. Revan instinctively shielded himself in the Force, and the attack dissipated against his invisible barrier. Nevertheless, his mind was left reeling with consternation. _He's lashing out in anger now?_ Revan knew that Malak could be headstrong and impulsive - Force, he knew that better than anyone. But _this_...

He was incredulous at his apprentice's actions for a fraction of a second, before he came to a realisation - one so obvious that he briefly wanted to Force choke _himself_ for not recognising it earlier.

 _Malak isn't lashing out; he's testing my power. He's challenging me again._

His understanding of the situation complete, Revan wasted no time in acting. He brought his arm upwards, gathering the power of the Force within him as his wrist rotated and he curled his fingers slowly inwards into a fist. Across the metal landscape of space and starships, Malak felt an invisible vice of durasteel close around his neck. Before he could muster the power to defend himself, searing pain coiled upwards, twisting towards the base of his skull as his throat convulsed and his lungs crushed themselves into a singular point of agony. Even the clumsy prosthetic which filled the space left by his severed lower jaw seemed to be conspiring against him as it pressed inwards with unyielding cruelty. He could not muster the concentration to sustain himself with the Force; darkness encroached on his vision and molten rage pooled in his stomach as he fell to his knees, his view of the dull metal floor below him tinged a blurry blood-red.

Revan knew exactly how to inflict pain; he pushed Malak to the edge of unconsciousness, but no further, so he could still snatch a convulsive breath, and regret it immediately because it was never enough and only prolonged the spread of incapacitating, white-hot agony lancing through his body.

Another thing Revan knew was that his apprentice's dissent would not be suppressed by such suffering; he would simply warp the feeling into fury, from fury into strength, from strength into power. Such was the way of the Sith. He could see the rage already, building in the hunched posture of Malak's holographic image as it knelt unwillingly before him. Not for the first time, Revan found himself wishing he had a more effective method of discipline. He couldn't help but believe that brute force and torture, while they had many uses, only bred further discontent... but spending his time mulling over such problems was counterproductive, so he simply focused on the task at hand.

 _I need to demonstrate complete control; complete dominance,_ he told himself, channelling all his concentration into maintaining the strength and unassailability of his grip. Revan entertained no delusions of invincibility: Malak was strong. In fact, he was strong enough to challenge his current Master if it came down to a saber duel. For the sake of the war effort and for the sake of of whatever unity they had left, Revan couldn't let his apprentice become aware of that particular fact - so he continued to inflict as much agony as he could, to suppress any spasms of resistance with immediate and uncompromising strength. _Strength is all Malak respects now._

Finally, when he felt the kneeling Sith's burning defiance compress itself back into simmering resentment, Revan released his Force grip, letting his arm fall silently to his side. Malak rose immediately, something painfully close to hatred apparent in the predatory rise and fall of his shoulders.

"If the traditions of the dark side are so important to you," Revan said coldly, "then challenge me in person next time you want to inform me of my _weakness_."

He cut the holotransmission, and the monstrous image of his former friend flickered into nothing.

Revan's eyes closed briefly beneath his mask as he stood still for a few moments. He hadn't ended their argument because he had nothing more to say; in fact, the list of things he wanted to tell Malak - or ask of him - could probably have filled the entire Jedi Archives. He couldn't remember exactly when their friendship had ended, or when the more efficient master-apprentice relationship which had followed it had deteriorated into this open hostility... but somehow both had happened in the space of a mere few years, and best friends had gradually become rivals. Now, all Revan knew was that their constant infighting was hindering their campaign against the Republic. Running a war was notably more difficult with the threat of betrayal and disloyalty waiting around every corner. _But then... betrayal, selfishness, disloyalty... those are all byproducts of the Sith philosophy, aren't they?_

Lately, Revan had found himself doubting the basic tenets of the dark side more and more. The ideals of the Sith were, of course, superior to the inconsistent pacifism and weak-minded platitudes of the Jedi - but they were far from perfect. His thoughts drifted to his holocron, concealed in the catacombs of the Rakatan Temple of the Ancients. A great number of his doubts and theories regarding the ideology of the dark side were sealed in its matrices - he could only hope that one day they would be found and understood by someone with the time and wisdom to expand upon them.

Still, he couldn't blame the theoretical contradictions of the dark side for his and Malak's disagreements - not completely, at least. The true reason for his erstwhile friend's behaviour was far more substantial. It had a name, a location, a goal...

Often, Revan was reluctant to even think about the unseen threat which waited in the Unknown Regions, for fear of falling under its dark influence again. He had thought he and Malak had fully broken free from its control: they now fought the Republic with the aim of strengthening it against an inevitable war. But in those rare moments when he let his guard down or became distracted, he could still feel the remnant of the Sith Emperor's manipulation trying to take root somewhere in the back of his mind. In its incomplete form, it urged him to weaken the galaxy instead of reinforcing it, to give in to destructive instincts. And the more Revan listened to it, the more its voice reminded him of Malak's.

 _So... Malak is more susceptible to these subtle mental assaults than I am. Either that or he just never completely broke free in the first place._

Whatever the case, he was becoming increasingly difficult to control. Revan had lost count of the number of times something resembling today's charade had played out. By now, the pair were arguing whenever they spoke... yet still there had only been one true duel between them: Malak's severed lower jaw acted as a constant reminder of his loss that day.

Instead of a final, decisive confrontation, they were trapped in a strange stalemate of repeatedly suppressed hostility - a situation which could not be sustained for much longer. Revan could feel Malak's low-burning anger from across the space which separated them, and he knew that one day soon he would be betrayed completely. Yet still he could not sense exactly when, or where, or how it would happen - he simply had to be prepared to deal with it when the time came.

Dismissing his useless thoughts, he cast a glance around the bridge. The spacious area was largely empty, save a few guards, higher-ranking officers and Dark Jedi Masters. It seemed that they had either not noticed his and Malak's interaction or chosen wisely to ignore it - he suspected the latter. Witnessing the disagreement of their leaders could not be good for morale, but there was very little that could be done to hide their altercations at this point, least of all from Force-adepts.

Once again, Revan cast his thoughts aside: he really didn't have time for pointless contemplation, and the final preparations for the upcoming battle had been delayed long enough already.

He turned, footsteps echoing across polished metal as he began to cross the bridge's central walkway - then stopped dead in his tracks.

With varying delays, every other Force-user in the room did the same, turning one by one to stare at an area of empty air directly above the centre of the walkway - their faces betraying fear and curiosity in equal measure as... as _something_ began to materialise there. This something wasn't yet visible, but what drew the attention of every Force-sensitive was the strange disturbance it created in the Force.

This disturbance had not been there seconds ago - Revan was sure of that. It was unlike anything he'd sensed before: it felt devoid of the Force, but it was not a temporary bubble like those created by ysalimiri, nor was it a wound in the Force like Malachor. It simply jarred with the Force, as though it had been born in its absence. The disturbance which was flickering into existence before him felt, to put it simply, like a door to a reality without the Force.

By the time the weakest Force-adept in the room registered the disturbance's presence, it was already pulsing into visibility. An eerie wheezing sound rattled through the the starship's enclosed air... then, all at once, a feeling became a physical object, dropping to the floor with a shuddering slam.

The snap-hiss-buzz of igniting lightsabers and the whisper of blaster pistols drawn from holsters ricocheted across the bridge, and Revan found that his hand had instinctively dropped to the familiar hilt of his own saber as he examined the strange object which now lay a few steps ahead of him.

It was an elongated box tall enough to fit an average Wookiee, a deep, battered blue in colour, with the words 'POLICE BOX' emblazoned across its front in High Galactic. It seemed to be lying on its side, and a regular, muffled sound vibrated from its interior - an alarm or siren with a bell-like resonance which sent primal dread rippling through the minds of almost all who heard it.

A few officers to Revan's left started a hesitant advance towards the box, blasters primed, but a commanding gesture from the Sith Lord stopped them. Something told him that this box and its contents posed no threat - still, the instinct which was providing this information couldn't be entirely reliable, and a certain all-powerful energy field didn't seem inclined to reveal its opinion on the matter.

A few seconds of taut silence passed before Revan reached experimentally towards the box, and it rose a few metres into the air. It seemed that while its interior was devoid of the Force, it could be manipulated like any other object. He rotated it gently until it hung upright above the walkway, then drew it towards him in order to examine it more closely.

The thing was primitive, at least in appearance, and it seemed to be composed of wooden panels - not exactly the kind of construction he would have expected from a bomb or a reconnaissance device. Besides, everything about it simply felt too alien for it to be Republic tech. Nothing could materialise from empty air the way this box had without the use of the Force or ancient Rakatan technology... unless it was equipped with a stealth field generator, and if that had been the case every Force-user in the vicinity would have sensed its presence long before it revealed itself. In other words, this strange object was something entirely new.

Just as Revan came to this conclusion, a blast of thick smoke spilled from the blue box floating before him, blinding the officers standing on either side of the walkway. The clamor of the strange bell blared across the bridge, suddenly tripled in intensity as a humanoid smudge stumbled from the capsule's sparking, smoke-clogged interior, shut its outer door with a hurried slam, and dropped with a thud to the starship's polished floor. As the smoke dissipated across the walkway, the humanoid smudge became more defined - until it took the shape of an old man, his velvet coat and single remaining boot blackened with burn marks, his glare apparent below a tufted expanse of grey hair.

And so, for the umpteenth time in his long life, the Doctor found himself rushing (so to speak) out of the frying pan and into the warship full of heavily armed Sith.

"Oh, will you all stop pointing guns at me?!" he demanded, his gruff voice filling the space in a commanding manner. "I'm unarmed, I've got one shoe and my ship's on fire! I'm not exactly a threat."

In Revan's experience, people who declared themselves not to be threats were usually lying... and the fact that the old man had just referred to a small wooden box as a ship didn't lend his words much in the way of credibility. His unorthodox arrival, his strange manner and appearance - these were probably ploys designed to catch an opponent off guard, and the Dark Lord of the Sith wasn't fooled so easily.

"Search this man and escort him to the detention block," he commanded, his voice every bit as authoritative as the newcomer's. In unexpected situations like this one, showing control and certainty was paramount. "Seize his 'ship' and search it. I will question him myself."

The armoured guards stationed at the bridge's entrance moved immediately to flank the new arrival, manhandling him towards the door with their blasters drawn and primed. Revan blanked out the old man's pointed barrage of remarks; any interaction with this unusual, confident prisoner would be on his own terms.

The decision to imprison the man immediately had largely been one based on caution - but Revan also felt a strong need to take complete control of the situation. This visitor and his ship were unknown quantities. Both were fully, unprecedentedly absent from the Force, and that immediately negated many of the Sith Lord's advantages when dealing with them. He smiled with bitter amusement beneath his mask. _Kreia was probably right about me. The Force is everything I am. Without it..._

For the third time that day, Darth Revan suppressed his wandering thoughts and continued with the task at hand.

Being trapped in a cylindrical energy cage in the belly of a starship belonging to an evil empire wasn't exactly a new situation for the Doctor, but neither was it one he had intended to end up in.

After learning some of the recent history and politics of this galaxy from Rusty (or HK-whatsit, or whatever the annoying robot had kept insisting its designation was), as well as the specifics of the droid's master and allegiance, the old Time Lord had - as much as he hated to admit it - been at a bit of a loss. Neither side of the current conflict sounded particularly appealing: one one hand the Doctor had had a few less than enjoyable experiences with High Councils, and on the other... well... the title of 'Dark Lord' wasn't exactly a reliable indicator of a pleasant character.

With that in mind, he had spent some time considering the matter of which side he ought to approach first - and had completely failed to come to a conclusion. Indeed, he might have been pondering the issue for a century... if the TARDIS hadn't detected something.

He still wasn't sure exactly what had prompted the ship's systems to power up again, but somehow limited functionality had been restored to her. It was entirely possible that this was due to the impossible signal which had been pulsing faintly within the vast range of her scanners. At first, the Doctor had been sure she was malfunctioning... but the more he examined the signal, the more he had begun to believe it was genuine. If the TARDIS's sensors were correct, there was familiar technology scattered across this galaxy. Not only familiar technology, but _Time Lord_ technology. How this was possible, he had no idea - but to say his interest had been piqued would have been an understatement.

So, naturally, he had immediately taken off, flying the TARDIS as best he could towards the nearest source of the impossible signal... which, of course, just _had_ to have been the location Rusty had given for the bulk of the Sith fleet.

As soon as they had exited the time vortex (he may have unintentionally slipped through time just a _tiny_ bit) the TARDIS's systems had been doomed once again. The presence of something - or someone - broadcasting an obnoxious amount of Force power had somehow disrupted most of her functions... so he had simply done his best to stabilise her before all of space-time could destroy itself (he didn't want to have to reboot the universe again). Then he had made a rapid exit before the control room's toxic conditions could send him into an early regeneration.

And so a flagship had been waiting for him, and so had Sith with laser swords and a Dark Lord... and now he was imprisoned in one of three flickering, humming energy cages in a dimly lit, slightly oppressive rectangular room in the corner of a Sith cruiser with absolutely no sign of the elusive Time Lord technology he had been searching for. _Brilliant_.

Fortunately, the Doctor didn't have much time to lament this turn of events, because a figure was already entering his dull detention block: a figure which quickly revealed itself to be no other than Rusty's master. The unfortunate droid had referred to the Sith leader as Darth Revan - a name the Doctor had actually bothered to remember, since its allusion was so obvious it might as well have been a nickname itself.

The room's unusual lighting inked the Sith Lord's evil-mask and evil-robes combo with shadows, dusting the (presumably) arcane designs which adorned his well-worn armour with blood-red light as he crossed the room in an unhurried manner and came to a thoughful stop a few metres from the Doctor. The menacing and shadowy effect, the Time Lord reflected, was probably intentional. Even beyond the physical plane, the weight of Revan's commanding presence was noticeable - and probably even chilling to weaker-minded beings. _Humans and their theatrics._

"I can't say I think much of your hospitality," the Doctor remarked critically before his would-be-interrogator could speak. "Do you treat all your guests like this?"

His voice dropped heavily in the room's ominous atmosphere, lingering unnaturally against the faint crackle of leaping energy fields.

"Only the uninvited ones," the Dark Lord replied, his authoritative and unnatural tone betraying no emotion. The alteration of his voice was probably a function of the battered red and black metal which obscured his face - and with it any evidence of his humanity. The mask was a melodramatic touch, but the Doctor had to admit it was a good intimidation technique - or at least would be, if it were put to use on someone who could actually be intimidated.

"I was invited," the Doctor shot back with feigned impatience. "Ask your murderous metal boyfriend."

Darth Revan was probably surprised that someone had managed to survive a conversation with his pet death machine, let alone learn confidential information from the ghastly thing - but he gave no visual cue to that effect, at least not that the Doctor could detect. Instead, he responded neutrally.

"He's not here. Care to explain in his place?"

"There isn't much to tell, really. Rusty told me all about you, and I fiddled around with its programming a bit..." The Doctor allowed himself a shrug and the hint of a self-satisfied smile. "It won't be coming back any time soon."

The Dark Lord of the Sith was silent for a moment, as though processing the information and considering how best to react. In the Doctor's experience, homicidal robots were usually considered valuable by brainless leaders of evil empires, so he was half expecting Revan to throw a fit and lay waste to an innocent control panel at the news of Rusty's loss - but somehow, the human's response was annoyingly matter-of-fact.

"I've killed people for less."

 _Well, points for honesty, I suppose..._

Still, the conversation was becoming incredibly tedious, and the Doctor could almost feel his brain cells slipping away as the pointless charade played out, so he decided to speed things up a little.

"Stop threatening me. It's getting boring. I know you won't kill me: I'm too interesting."

"Really?" The Sith Lord's voice displayed its first genuine emotion: a record-breaking slight hint of amusement.

Encouraged, the Doctor decided to skip the next minute of predictable conversation and get straight to the point.

"I materialised in the middle of your secret evil fleet with a wooden box which surpasses all your technology, your Force can't touch me, and my eyebrows have more attack power than your strongest battle cruiser. I'm not just interesting. I'm _fascinating_."

Despite the truth of everything the Doctor had just said, Revan's next words sounded skeptical.

"Fascinating? I think the word you're looking for there is 'insufferable'."

It was a teasing comment, not meant as a true insult or intended to be taken seriously. Yet somehow the casual normality of the statement affected the Doctor more than any intimidating persona or threat ever would. If Rusty was to be believed, this masked being was responsible for the destruction of worlds, for literal billions of deaths, all in the name of what - some meaningless crusade for power? As much as he wished he hadn't, the Doctor had met mass-murdering war leaders like this before. They had always been emotionless, dramatic, larger-than-life, simultaneously less and more than than a true member of whatever species they belonged to. Up until this moment, Darth Revan had seemed to fit the archetype - but his last comment had shown something which people like him shouldn't rightfully be allowed to possess. Somehow, this particular Dark Lord had a gentle sense of humour, a guiltless humanity. This was what made the old Time Lord angry beyond reason or belief. But... _the Doctor doesn't give into anger.._. so he swallowed down a philosophical tirade, and let his words express only a rough disbelief.

"Oh, come on! You can't go blowing up planets all over the place and expect people to be nice to you." That last sentence was something he wouldn't have dared to say a few centuries ago, but now that Gallifrey had been restored to the universe in all its infuriating glory... he could take the moral high ground all he wanted, so take the moral high ground he did. " _Insufferable_ is what you get when you're evil."

The Sith Lord didn't seem affronted by the Doctor's assessment of his morality. Nevertheless, like any self-respecting villain, he moved quickly to defend his motives.

"I'm necessary," he stated simply.

The Doctor scoffed. "That's what humans always say. You lot are never going to come to terms with your own insignificance, are you?"

The Time Lord didn't believe his own words, of course: in all his travels he had never met anyone who didn't have a daunting amount of significance, no matter the length or scale of their life. But in this moment he was so full of righteous anger - and maybe a small amount of selfish desire to see the Sith Lord put in his place - that he continued: "Go on, then. Are you going to hurry up and explain why you're so 'necessary', or are you just here to stand around like an idiot?"

Once again, Darth Revan ignored the taunt, refusing to respond to what he probably saw as petty insults. Instead, he began to speak.

"I, as an individual, am not necessary..." he conceded, his voice cold as always, "...but the cause I fight for is. The Republic as it stands today is corrupt and complacent, and becomes more so by the minute. The near-sighted Senators are lost in a bureaucratic quagmire. There are too many politicians, too many agendas, and too little certainty. Still, however ineffective the government is, the Jedi are worse. They shield themselves in their enclaves, meditating on their shadowy premonitions of a threat but taking no action. They believe they are all-knowing, superior beings - but they are insular and self-serving, trapped in introspection." Revan stood unmoving, facing the Doctor, each word a concentrated attack on its recipient, each statement morphing through what the Doctor assumed was the Force to become a strengthening belief which took root firmly in the mind of the listener - becoming much more than the sum of the simple words themselves. "When the Mandalorians turned on the Republic, the Jedi simply watched. They remained inactive, hid away as worlds burned before their eyes, all because of some vague fear of a greater threat. Would you have refused to act in such a situation? I did not. I gathered every like-minded being, and we acted. Together, we, the most resolute and independent of the Jedi, stood against the Mandalorian threat, and we won. We saved the Republic and the livelihoods of its citizens - but still, the floundering Republic is weak. The Jedi who refused to protect it are weak. When a greater threat arises in a few centuries' time - and I know it will - they will not confront it, and this time we won't have the strength to do so in their place. The galaxy as we know it will be destroyed - and for what? The insubstantial premonitions of the Jedi? The ineffective bickering of politicians? The galaxy needs strengthening, and the corruption of the Republic and the Jedi runs too deep for it to be done internally. Darth Malak and I understand the threat. We've touched the mind of the enemy, and we can - we _must_ defeat it. So we will attack the Republic and the Jedi, we will tear them down and we will build a better galaxy from the infrastructure they leave behind. The galaxy will stand stronger than ever: strong enough to face the true darkness which waits at its borders. Whatever the Republic or the Jedi may tell you, I am not some deluded prisoner of the dark side. I'm fighting for the same cause I have always been fighting for: the future of the galaxy and every being within it. _That_ is why I am necessary."

 _Evil is never necessary,_ the Doctor wanted to say. _You may think your destruction is just or righteous - but you're lying to yourself. If the Last Great Time War taught me anything, it taught me that._ But the Time Lord held his tongue, if only because he knew the young human wouldn't see the truth of his words. Besides, as much as he hated to admit it, he had to give the Sith Lord credit for his oratory skills. Despite the impersonal front of his mask which filtered out any human expression, there was a deep-rooted certainty in his words. It was clear now why this man had followers - anyone wavering between viewpoints would be captivated by his strength and conviction. Unfortunately for Revan, the Doctor had never been much of a waverer.

"Oh, stop with the impassioned preaching. It's annoying," he demanded scathingly. "No, I'm not going to give my superior technology to your evil army, so stop trying. We're both losing brain cells with all this prattling - not that it'll make much difference to you."

Darth Revan seemed almost amused as he replied: "And if I claimed that your technology wasn't my motivation...?"

"You'd be talking absolute rubbish."

"If that's what you choose to believe," the Sith Lord replied dismissively; he would doubtlessly pursue the matter later. "I have a battle to prepare for, but for now, tell me one thing. Why are you and your ship absent from the Force?"

The Doctor took a moment to consider his reply. He could always refuse to answer, and endure even more mindless pestering. Alternatively, he could tell the truth. The Time Lord immediately knew which option would be more interesting.

"Well, my name is the Doctor, I'm a super-intelligent being from another universe, I'm over two thousand years old, I belong to a race of aliens with thirteen lives and two hearts and my blue box is a time machine which contains an alternate dimension." For maximum effect, he put on the same devilish smile he had given Rusty the day before. "That should explain it."

A moment of unreadable silence permeated the buzz of the room's trio of energy cages - before Revan, who still seemed somehow unfazed in his determination not to react to the Doctor's seemingly ridiculous story, spoke.

"Well, Doctor..." he said coldly, his mask's mental counterpart firmly in place over his emotions, "...the fleet is entering hyperspace in less than a day. When I return after the battle, I sincerely hope you'll be more cooperative." With that, the Dark Lord of the Sith turned on his heel, the shadow of his cloak brushing across the floor as he crossed the detention block in a few brief strides. In the moment before the room's heavy door hissed shut behind him, he gave an almost imperceptible wave of one hand... and something hummed into life within the circuitry of the Doctor's energy cage. Without warning, a sparking stream of electrical bolts arced towards the unprepared Time Lord, slamming into his left side and sending tendrils of electric current flickering across his skin and into his body. This was the truth of people like Revan: they might hide behind persuasive words or righteous speeches, but in the end they would always resort to violence and torture, because that was all they knew. _Pitiful_.

Whatever the case, it seemed that this particular torture mechanism hadn't been designed for the Doctor's physiology. Without undue effort, the old Time Lord suppressed and contained the electrical charge, channelling it harmlessly... until he simply stood motionless, with a charred coat and a single shoe, bathed in the light of a torture field in the middle of an evil army, somewhere between the strange stars of an unfamiliar universe.

All in all, an average day for the madman with a box.

 **(A/N: Thank you so much for reading. I apologise for my terrible writing, and for the Doctor and Revan seeming a bit out of character in the second part - it's because the Doctor's being constantly reminded of the Time War and Revan is being affected/caught off guard by the Doctor being... well, the Doctor... but trying not to show it, which is why his approach to the conversation is so erratic. Next chapter will feature Malak's betrayal and the first appearance of Bastila... and the mystery of the elusive Time Lord tech will deepen. I hope this chapter wasn't too awful; feedback of all kinds is always appreciated!)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

This universe's only Time Lord hated being alone.

For someone with as many bygone years and lives and regrets as he had, time alone only led to introspection, self-reflection and too many memories clamouring to be heard... and today was no exception. Earlier, he had been angry. He had made himself unthinking and blasé, his thoughts blunt and his words scathing - not quite too cruel for the Doctor, but certainly cruel enough to leave him with a familiar self-directed unease pooling in his stomach like corrosive acid.

Of course, his usual standing point with anyone he met was one of benign superiority, adopted to make reasoning with people and resolving situations that much easier... but the arrogance he had displayed today was something different altogether. It was his own particularly detestable brand of self-righteousness, and it was something he had sworn he would never allow to control him - just as he had sworn the very first time he had taken the name of the Doctor. He had been running without thought then, enchanted by the breathless, dizzying promise of the universe before him, a blinding eternity of wonders and possibilities in every direction. Yet even then, he had taken the time to swear a single oath - if not for the universe, then for himself. _Never cruel or cowardly. Never give up. Never give in._

 _Four promises I seem to be astonishingly good at breaking._

 _And there I am._

This was the true cause of the Doctor's unease. As the centuries passed and regeneration warped his mind into ever less recognisable shapes, as he was torn from delusions of youth and submerged in them again with equal violence, as everything he was found itself choking and withering to nothing again and again, recollection drowning itself in a flood of that unnatural golden light, as his mind was strewn with more memories and lives and people than even his enhanced Time Lord brainpower could know what to do with, he had begun to separate himself.

It was a sort of cerebral filing system, he supposed - a method of categorising thoughts and personality traits which kept him from devolving into senility or incoherence. Put simply, it was a way of giving every facet of himself its own voice. Of course, this mental division was a deliberate measure, nothing like the disparate personalities or dissociative disorders which were so tragically common amongst some species. Still, it was far from ideal, because whenever he most needed composure, rationality and stability, some inconvenient fragment of his personality inevitably seemed determined to provide him with the opposite.

 _Do I really think I was justified in taking the moral high ground and condemning that young human? I wasn't aware that I had added utter hypocrisy and denial to my skill set._

The voice the Doctor assigned to that particular admonishment was gravelly, scathing, bitter... unmistakably Granddad. Granddad was the one the Doctor never spoke of: the very worst of the Doctor's past selves, and the one facet of himself whose criticism he least needed right now. The old Time Lord kept his mental reply curt.

 _Oh, shut up. This face's regeneration means this face's decisions. I don't remember asking for my input._

 _So I'm going to deny my own actions, just to - what? Maintain that heroic image of myself I'm so insistent on projecting? That would be both cruel and cowardly._

 _Remember Earth. The Zygons. The boxes. Did that look like denial to me? I'm not hiding behind a young face anymore. I know perfectly well what I was... what I am. But this is different._

 _How?_

The voice which acted as the clear antagonist in this discussion was becoming less defined, losing its singular identity as Granddad and becoming a discordant clamour; it felt almost like the old Time Lord was ganging up on himself, and he didn't like it one bit.

 _Surely that doesn't require an explanation._

 _I'm wrong. There is no difference between this and the Zygons. It's just a matter of scale._

 _What?_

 _Oh, come on. Think of Earth. The threat of a racial conflict over the surface of one planet. How easy was it to separate myself from that situation? To take an impartial role beneficial to both sides? To... to reassure myself that it was so far from my own crimes that I could quote them like some bloody cautionary tale?_

 _It wasn't easy._

 _It never is, being the Doctor. I know that. But what I stumbled upon today... the Sith, the Jedi, the Republic... that's different. By Rassilon, it's a galactic war..._

 _Don't swear by that name anymore._

 _...of course, it's insignificant in the scale of the Time War, but it's certainly no skirmish. The death toll, the scale, the figures... they are all too familiar._

 _What exactly is that supposed to mean?_

 _I have no right to claim superiority over these people._

 _My conversation with that masked Sith was a moment of arrogance and an error of judgement. I don't deny that. But asserting superiority is a way of laying the foundations for... oh, you know... respect, persuasion, eventual redemption... all that complicated stuff. Now shut up._

 _Redemption? Is that what I'm trying to achieve here?_

 _Always. Now shut up._

 _Their redemption, or mine?_

 _"Shut up!"_

It was only when he heard his words snap against the pulsing crackle of an energy field that the Doctor realised he had spoken aloud... and that his outburst had had a witness.

In the energy cage adjacent to his stood a creature dressed in ragged robes. It was tall, pallid and similar in physique to an average Gallifreyan, save lines which subtly traced the contours of its face and several stunted horns which protruded from its bald scalp. It didn't occur to the Doctor to wonder where the thing had come from: the old Time Lord knew only that it was here, and was now regarding him from beneath its light, hairless brow. The creature certainly didn't look well: it was visibly shaking, hardly managing to stand.

"Are you addressing me?" it asked after a moment. Its voice was soft and tremulous, bearing no emotion.

"I don't know," the Doctor replied irritably. "Did you need to shut up?" The creature, like so many he had met lately, was brimming with the Force, and it set him on edge.

"I was not speaking," the thing in the cage replied in its breathy, genteel monotone, studying the Time Lord with a neutral gaze. "You are no Jedi. Wh…why do the Sith hold such an old one prisoner?"

"Because they're idiots," the old one in question explained curtly, curiosity overriding his sense of caution as he continued: "A better question would be… why are you imprisoned? Are you a Jedi?"

"I was, I think," came the wary response. "Now, I do not know."

"What's that supposed to mean?" the Doctor demanded, though he knew perfectly well. The Doctor had seen beings almost like this one before: beings whose sense of self had been torn out by something or someone, leaving a hollow, malleable mind and a broken will. Often this brutalisation of the consciousness was caused by an unthinkable trauma or external event. Sometimes, however, it was a precisely calculated procedure. It had it uses in punishment, torture… or, just as frequently, in conversion to a cause. Defying his emotions, the Doctor softened his tone. "Tell me you have a name at least."

"I am… between names," was the only reply.

"The Doctor. Pleased to meet you too." At that, his cellmate's head lifted, and fixed him with the sear of its unnatural eyes.

"You are a doctor?" The Doctor chuckled almost imperceptibly, casting his thoughts back, doing his best to rationalise them. Then, because he could and because he shouldn't, he delivered his answer with a tone far more jovial than it deserved.

"I was, I think. Now, I don't know."

The creature was silent, and the Doctor saw now that it had succumbed to its exhaustion even before it had heard his words. It sagged against the energy cage's metal spine, its almost translucent eyelids drooping of their own volition.

All was quiet then, at least until the Time Lord's cellmate woke itself up screaming, the stench of charred flesh permeating air as it thrashed mindlessly against the electrical field which enclosed it, struggling against a tormentor the Doctor could not see.

Revan, uncharacteristically, was really missing his old Jedi meditation techniques. Despite their many flaws, most members of the Order had been masters of focus and composure, two things which the Sith Lord now found himself sorely lacking. He felt distracted, unfocused, off-guard - as though the number of odds falling over themselves to pile up against him had finally caught up with his capacity to deal with them. Which, in fact, was exactly what had happened. In a cell far below him was the infuriatingly unreadable Doctor with his eerie Force presence- or lack of it. Behind him in the obscurity of hyperspace was Malak, unreasonable, seething, primed to detonate. And now, as his fleet began to drop out of hyperspace, he knew that ahead of him lay the military might of the Republic.

He had intended to lay a trap for the enemy fleet, but right now it seemed as though the only person the Sith Lord had cornered was himself. The Force around him felt uneasy, its usual power and harmony replaced by a tense foreboding. Even his perceptions were clouded - his usually impressively acute Force sense was beginning to blur and swim of its own accord, like the sight of a being on the verge of unconsciousness.

Darth Revan was many things, but he was certainly no idiot. He knew this disturbance in the Force wasn't a generalised herald of some great event. It was an entirely personal premonition. _Between the Doctor and the Republic, and most of all Malak, I will be defeated today._ That would be a Jedi's response - resigned, peaceful, lifeless... but Revan had only ever been a Jedi in name.

 _The Force has no will: only a natural balance, and nature has been dominated by sentient minds for millennia. Our lives are what we make of them. I am what I need to be. If I die today, my cause dies with me, and the galaxy stagnates. The Force has no say in this._

Between the unnaturally glistening hulls of the freshly forged Sith warships and the muted swirl of the system's only inhabited planet far below hung the angular form of a small Republic battle group: Hammerhead-class cruisers suspended in the abyssal vacuum's eerie silence, encrusted by swarms of fighters already detaching in anticipation of the imminent battle.

 _They knew we were coming, of course._

Without hesitation, barely a split-second after the Sith fleet dropped from hyperspace, Darth Revan gave the order to attack.

Waves of hostile fighters broke against one another in a tumble of multifaceted light, laser and ion cannon blasts streaking silently through space on every side. To any external observer, the blinding display would be impossible to decipher or control, but even with his compromised Force perception, Revan commanded the battle almost instinctively. He called relentlessly for ships and squadrons to advance and withdraw, to focus fire or change tactics, constantly pressuring the Republic's defensive formation, always on the brink of overextension- but not yet tipping over it.

There was a reason for this aggressive tactic. The Sith may have had the numerical advantage in this engagement... but they didn't have much time.

This system, located in an insignificant Outer Rim sector, was of little to no strategic importance to the Republic. As such, Revan had been suspicious when a Sith informant - a young, uncertain Iridonian Zabrak (apparently a Padawan recently defected from the Order) - had reported that a small- but significant- detachment of the Republic fleet had been dispatched to the system.

Further examination through the Force and other techniques more than familiar to the Sith Lord had revealed that the informant had defected impulsively: she still had a degree of deep-rooted loyalty to the Jedi. He had changed that quickly enough... but the true core of the problem had been that the young being genuinely believed the information she had delivered. In his mind, it was close to impossible that the Republic would see any value in defending the system or manning its long-abandoned military base. That left only one possibility: the Jedi and the Republic had become even more underhanded in their attempts to trap their opponents.

 _Manipulating one of their own into defecting with false information? That Padawan must really have got on their bad side. Not that doing so is particularly difficult._

In any case, there was only one reasonable conclusion to all this: when the Sith attacked the seemingly vulnerable fleet, the Republic would likely have reinforcements waiting, taking great pains to remain undetected by Sith scouts.

The world which hung far beneath the silent flare of battle was one of the many Revan and Malak had investigated during the Mandalorian Wars. They hadn't stayed long - it had soon become apparent that there was nothing to be found there. As a result, Revan knew very little of the insectoid indigenes' culture.. yet it seemed now that he'd learned enough. Like many other races not fully integrated into galactic society, the native population resented the starships that passed their world, the galactic corporations they saw as exploitative, vying for rights to the natural resources their ancestors had safeguarded for millennia. From what Revan had gathered, their idea of paradise was one without technology, without the Republic which had introduced the light pollution and lines of freighters which marred their home's pristine night sky.

On the planet's fourth moon (an uninhabitable and desolate rock, its name a holy word in the native tongue but unpronounceable in Basic or any other language the Sith Lord had encountered), a relatively unusual phenomenon could be found: a permanent electrical storm filling much of the natural satellite's thin atmosphere. This violent tempest disrupted scanners, sensors and detection systems, and the locals saw it as their homeworld's saving grace: one place at least which was immune to the clamour of galactic society. It was common practice for communities to put their leaders or holy beings to rest in the storm's shelter, sending the bodies up in damaged or discarded ships from their old Republic military base to litter the moon's barren surface.

The fourth moon's storm was a refuge for the dead, but under the current circumstances Revan suspected it also harboured the living.

He reached out with the Force now, pushing away the haze of dread which seemed so determined to overcome his senses. Moving beyond the battle's mass of surging energy, adrenaline and terror, he touched the minds of the Republic commanders, felt their instinctive dread and revulsion- but he sensed they had no conscious awareness of his mental invasion. There was no resistance, and that told the Sith Lord all he needed to know. There was not a single Jedi among them.

Casting his perceptions outwards, Darth Revan reached into the fourth moon's electrical storm, and what he found there was an absence of any Force presence. Not a conspicuous absence, but a pristine patch of the natural universe, devoid of any disturbance whatsoever. An area so wholly natural, in fact, that it could be nothing but unnatural. An area which could very well be a barrier created by a task force of Jedi, large enough to shield their own presence and that of a small group of Republic reinforcements.

As soon as Revan was sure of the Force barrier's magnitude, he withdrew from his immersion in the Force, allowing himself to smile beneath his mask as he decided against testing the strength of the Jedi's mental shielding any further. _After all, it's best they don't realise I'm onto them just yet. Wouldn't want to ruin the surprise._

His mind anchored back in the material world (for now at least), the Sith Lord quickly scanned the holodisplay before him, ignoring for the moment the incessant, silent flickering of the ongoing battle as it raged, fiery and desperate and turning minute by minute in favour of the Sith. The Jedi lay in wait nearby at the edge of the fourth moon's atmosphere, concealed, on edge, prepared to strike.

Finally, Darth Revan decided it was about time he started to lose the battle.

"Squadron Five, break formation and push towards that Hammerhead," he ordered into his comm, and watched as the group of fighters protecting the left flank of his own flagship detached, weaving through debris and bolts of plasma to close in on a nearby Republic cruiser: an obvious target, its shields having been crippled by the initial Sith attack. The Sith pilots engaged with no fear, no thought given to the consequences, and as the enemy ship crumbled all but two of their fighters blossomed into short-lived flame, exposed to the full brunt of the Republic's offence. The Sith Lord watched impassively; the pilots' deaths had served good purpose.

Revan scanned the fourth moon's outer atmosphere as it loomed large in the bridge's left viewport. He had show overconfidence. He had left himself open to attack, giving the Jedi the window of opportunity they needed, and if he had predicted correctly, it was now only a matter of minutes before they would come out of hiding.

Was it arrogant of him to assume the Jedi would fall for such an obvious ploy? Probably... yet he still couldn't bring himself to question the decision. If the battles he had fought against the Republic and the Order so far had taught him anything, they had taught him that Jedi had a talent for underestimating their opponents, and, especially, for underestimating Darth Revan. No matter how many times he outmanoeuvred them strategically, no matter how many Jedi he broke or how much terror he inspired, he had come to think there was still some small part of each inflexible, indoctrinated Master's mind which led them to believe they were fighting the equivalent of a corrupted Padawan. _Powerful, yet impulsive. Inexperienced. Overly passionate. More charisma than brains. Barely a Knight when he left the Order._

Revan had little interest in dispelling these illusions: more often than not, they worked to his advantage, just as they did now. The Jedi concealed in the fourth moon's atmosphere would believe that his lack of caution was genuine, that he would be taken by surprise. They would see an opportunity to strike at the heart of the Sith fleet without suffering heavy casualties in a dogfight or falling to the flagship's defences, which were occupied by the battle ahead.

"Incoming fighters," came a cry from one of the officers studying the scanners on the left of the bridge. "A dozen and a small transport between us and the moon... it looks like they just came out of stealth, sir. Should we engage?"

 _And so they reveal themselves._

"Not yet," Revan ordered quickly. "Let them approach."

The Sith flagship's apparent vulnerability would draw the Jedi strike force into overcommitting, and before they could do any meaningful damage, Malak's group of reinforcements (as long as they had followed the predetermined timings) would drop from hyperspace, moving in to sever any escape route and capture the trapped Jedi: more recruits for the ranks of the Dark Jedi. and another loss for the dying Order. Everything was proceeding according to plan... but still the unrest in the living Force had not ceased.

"Sir-" ...the same officer as before, a tremor of foreboding in his voice. "It's Admiral Karath on the Leviathan. He says... he says they've been delayed."

"By how much?"

"He can't say exactly, sir- a standard hour, or more... what should I tell him?"

Revan said nothing. Silently, he crossed the bridge to the control panels, moving past the officers - who parted deferentially - to stand over the quarter-scale flickering holoimage of the Leviathan's current commanding officer.

"Karath." Cold, measured fury was the only emotion apparent in the Sith Lord's tone. The older Human in the holoimage flinched visibly in instinctual fear, then recovered his guarded composure as Revan continued. "Tell me how a fully equipped battle group comes to be delayed."

There was something approaching triumph implicit in the set of the Admiral's features.

"My lord, I am simply following orders. If you would like to discuss the matter with Lord Malak..."

 _Oh, I've tried- for all the good that would do now. Force, what a fool I've been._

"That won't be necessary." Revan abruptly shut off the holotransmission, turning to face the viewport through which the Jedi strike team was now visible, starfighters streaking through space directly towards the Sith fleet.

"Prepare to repel boarders," he ordered, his voice unnaturally calm.

Theoretically, he could recall a squadron of fighters to defend the flagship... but disengaging would inevitably give the rest of the Republic fleet a second opening, only serving to worsen the situation. That left only one option: he would let the Jedi fight their way through the crew and the ship's inbuilt defences, then confront them, as far as possible, on his own terms.

The Sith Lord reached out with the Force, testing the limits of the Jedi's mental shielding with a newfound urgency. They were no longer completely absent from the Force: no Master would have the mental capacity to fly a ship through the midst of a battle whilst maintaining such concealment. Still, their minds remained obstinately immune to any attempt at invasion - but there was something to be learned even from such mental resistance.

Six of the incoming starfighters contained Jedi, Revan concluded. Two of these were Masters, minds shrouded in powerful barriers of Force energy. Another three were Knights, or perhaps senior Padawans- imitating their betters, but not quite mastering their own stray thoughts.

The sixth fighter contained what could only be a Padawan; his presence wavering and uncertain, poorly veiled emotion radiating from the space he occupied in the Force.

 _Poorly trained,_ Revan noted. _Do the Masters think throwing this one into war will show him what their_ teachings _couldn't?_

Whatever the case, the relative weakness of this Padawan's mind would be easy to capitalise on.

A True Sith immersed in the arcane secrets of the dark side could learn to completely control somebody, to bend a being's mind and body to their will using only the Force. Revan, who had simply never had the time for such study, couldn't achieve such a feat, much less from a distance like the one which separated him from the Padawan's fighter (and that was without considering the eerie haze which still clouded his Force perceptions). Without spoken communication, he could only influence a mind for a very brief period- a matter of seconds, really.

Suddenly, without giving the senior Jedi time to predict his actions, Revan wrested control of the Padawan's mind, subjugating his consciousness in an instant and forcing him to believe that the best thing to do at this particular moment would be to wrench the controls of his starfighter sharply to one side, then to let go -

The combined reactive effort of the Jedi Masters expelled the Sith Lord from the young being's head as violently as he had entered it... but the damage had already been done.

The Padawan's starfighter slammed headlong into its neighbour, sparks spraying silently into space as the two fighters careened out of control, another interlinked mass of mangled metal amongst the debris of battle. For a brief second, the Force flared with grief, pain and determination, even rage- before Jedi denial smothered the outpouring emotion, and the remaining starfighters accelerated forwards- reduced in numbers but, apparently, not in determination.

As alarms began to blare, echoing across the flagship's metal interior, Revan blocked out the sound of urgent commands and hurried footsteps, and focused his thoughts inwards. Composure and rationality had served their purpose, and now, as the approaching Jedi suppressed their emotion, denied their fear and rage, it was time for the Sith Lord to do the exact opposite.

Revan gathered the Force around him. It was weakened, uneasy- but it was undeniably there, as it would always be. Silently, he drew strength from the anguish of the Jedi as their companions fell. He took his anger at Karath, at Malak's senseless betrayal, and channeled it into the Force without restraint. Most of all, he drew on the anger he felt towards himself: he had known that Malak could no longer be trusted, and yet he had committed to a strategy which relied entirely on his former friend's loyalty. By leaving himself vulnerable, he had betrayed the cause he fought for, and in his failure he might very well have condemned the galaxy to burn in the fires of Malak's undiscerning destruction. This self-directed rage was the most powerful of all- and he poured it into the Force which surrounded him until his presence sparked and crackled with pure malice, raw Force energy building, swelling, like a wave on the cusp of breaking or a beast barely chained - but more controlled than either, and in that sense, more deadly.

When the first Republic troops battled their way to the bridge, they were met with a storm of primal Force energy so strong that it might have inspired awe, had they lived long enough to form an opinion on the matter. And when the Jedi finally reached the bridge, exhausted from the herculean effort it had taken to overcome the ship's defenses, wary and fundamentally unsettled by the taint of the dark side... they found the space littered with corpses. Some were charred, some twisted, some riddled with the evidence of blaster bolts and some lying as though at rest- there was barely a space of the bridge's floor not covered by the dead, both Republic and Sith. In the centre of the bridge stood the masked Dark Lord of the Sith, seemingly at peace - although his Force presence stated otherwise. He had not yet drawn his lightsaber.

Revan watched the Jedi approach. They made no attempt to conceal their thoughts now: trepidation, fear, exhaustion, determination, anger, self-righteousness. Every feeling Jedi claim immunity to was there, festering in the confines of their self-denial. Through the concentrated dark side energy which corrupted the air, Revan couldn't recognise them, or gauge their strength - excluding perhaps the Human at the head of the group: the one adept in Battle Meditation, Padawan Shan. She had become some kind of HoloNet star over the past year: she was seen by many as the embodiment of the Jedi contribution to the war effort.

No wonder they chose to send her on this mission. It would make the perfect HoloNews headline - ' _Famous Padawan defeats deranged Sith Lord in single combat, saving Republic... unfortunately said Republic is destroyed shortly afterwards by second, far more deranged Sith Lord.'_

That was the heart of the matter: here and now, Revan and the knowledge he held was all that stood between the galaxy and a reign of complete chaos. As afflicted as his mind was by rage and resolve, by the room's aura of death and by the foreboding in each breath of the living Force around him, he knew he could not die here.

Without speaking, the Dark Lord ignited his lightsaber. Part of him longed to reach for the second saber hanging at his belt, but this was not a time for finesse or balance. The crimson blade which burned in the stale, metallic air seemed to feed on the death which surrounded it, thriving, flickering brighter as it tasted violence and anguish.

The Jedi were close now, barely metres away. Boldly, the Padawan who led them stepped forward.

"You cannot win, Revan."

A cultured Core accent. Absently, the Sith Lord wondered whether she was aware of how hollow her confidence sounded. Could he win? Against the Jedi, perhaps. They were fatigued and uneasy, and he was in his element. Against the combined threat of the Jedi and Malak, however...

The Force shuddered, a palpable disturbance bearing the weight of a presence familiar to Revan, yet entirely new: it seemed the remainder of the Sith fleet had finally arrived. The animalistic hulk of the Leviathan suddenly loomed beyond the viewport, black-carapaced and menacing, carrying with it the unmistakeable presence of Malak, his forceful aura of hatred and triumph piercing the vacuum which divided the two ships.

Revan felt despair and foreboding freeze the minds of the Jedi... then disappear, as they decided in unison that they must fight one battle at a time. On any other day, under any other circumstances, he would have decided the same instantly: he would already have made use of his opponents' momentary distraction to strike, forcing them onto the defensive. But he found he couldn't... because the Force surrounding him had begun to do something he could never have anticipated. It had filled with chill, numbing dread until he could hardly think, then, somehow, it had begun to fade.

For the first time in years, or perhaps in his life, Revan could see no way out; his mind could process nothing but grief and all-encompassing panic. The Force wasn't merely part of him. It was his strength, his identity, his purpose.. and yet he knew it was right to leave him now, because just as the final vestiges of his Force sight dissolved into nothing, the haze of unease which had obscured the truth finally cleared. He saw the violent, unceremonious form that Malak's last betrayal would take.

Perhaps it was because he wasn't entirely in a rational state of mind, but Revan couldn't bring himself to feel anger at Malak, at the Force, at anything. Instead, a tired sadness permeated his being: this twisted, brutish caricature of Malak was just another manifestation of his own failure. Despite all his efforts, every strategy, atrocity and sacrifice, he would die today.

Perhaps this too was just a function of his mind's fragmented state, but Revan's last thought before the bridge blew apart was of Alek.

 **(A/N: Yikes. It's been a little while since I updated this story... but I hope this chapter still lives up to the first two - I apologise if my writing and characterisation is a bit off or if you disagree with my ideas. I'm also sorry about the slight lack of Doctor Who in this chapter: it was going to be more balanced but this is actually only the first half of what I intended chapter 3 to be... I got slightly carried away on the word count, and besides I think this was a natural stopping point for the chapter. Hopefully I'll get future updates written much faster! A huge thank you to all the people who reviewed and gave positive feedback: encouragement and constructive criticism are appreciated as always.)**


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